


under my skin

by birdycurtains



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholics Anonymous, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Car Accidents, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Harley Keener & Peter Parker Friendship, Harley Keener is a Good Bro, Hurt Peter Parker, Lawyer Matt Murdock, M/M, Past Peter Parker/Flash Thompson, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Police Officer Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Tony Stark, Rebecca Barnes Is a Good Bro, Recovery, References to Depression, Supportive May Parker (Spider-Man)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25084675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdycurtains/pseuds/birdycurtains
Summary: Peter Parker has only ever found happiness at the bottom of a bottle, for as long as he could remember. And when that wasn't even enough he turned to something harder, a vicious cycle that warped and twisted all of his teenage years.After getting involved in legal trouble due to his latest escapades, he now must turn his life around.After befriending Becca, the girl at the local bakery, things slowly begin to look up for him. Learning and building his own support system is supposed to be key to his recovery, and he hadn't been doing too terribly until his feelings for his newfound friend's brother seem to be getting in the way.Crushes and pining after unavailable men have never been an issue before, but Bucky Barnes also happens to be ten years older than him, and his AA Group Leader.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson, Peter Parker & Rebecca Barnes, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 52





	1. the angels come too late

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks so much for reading, and be careful to mind the tags. "under my skin" will contain some potentially triggering content. The rating will go from mature to explicit in the future.

It’s white and out of focus. His worldview, equivalent to a fractured camera lens. 

He felt out of touch with reality and stilted down to what was before him.

His own eyes betraying him, unable to concentrate on any specific thought.

Peter feels the pain before anything else. It fizzles through his fingertips down to his toes, and he feels his heartbeat steadily throbbing in his ears.

Against the wishes of his body, he slowly, excruciatingly lifts his head from where it had rested on the cool steering wheel.

Finally setting his gaze on the crumpled hood of his car, it begins to register.

Soft powdery snow had begun to cover the hood of his car, along with glass shards from where branches had pierced through his windshield and into the front half of his car.

The sun still has yet to fully rise, but the sky is turning a cornflower blue, and using the faint light he is slightly able to make out the pieces of glass scattered amongst the snow on his dashboard.

He feels his eyes begin to water as the pain sets in, beginning with a constant thrum pounding in his temples. At the very least it’s a reminder he’s still alive instead of stuck in some scene straight out of a Goosebumps book from his childhood. 

Peter lets his head fall back against the headrest while he waits for his world to stop swirling around him, in a haze he blinks rapidly trying to wish away the stabbing pain in his leg, that he can now see is crushed under pieces of plastic and metal from the side of the car.

Spots trickle into the edges of his vision as it gets messier. His eyes sting and eyelashes clump as he wipes the back of his hand across his face; he peels it away to only see red.

Every part of his body is throbbing and he just wants to close his eyes again. It takes all of his effort to heave out another breath. 

Distantly, Peter hears sirens coming, and all he can do is hope they’ll make it to him.

Maybe by his own luck they won’t, it’s not like he had ever been deserving of any chances he had been given over the years.

May should’ve tossed him out on his ass when she had the option.

Fortunately for him, her love has always been and will always be unconditional. 

But how terrible for her, for Peter to constantly bite at the hand that fed him, and to finally bite the dust in a mess of his own doing, leaving her alone in the world.

He never truly wanted to die like this, stupidly, by his own hand, no matter how much as he may wish so on the harder nights.

He could always feel death peering over his shoulder, like a watchful friend. Always present when he held the lighter to the spoon when the blow mixed with the blood dripping from his nose like a weak faucet 

He found himself looking in the face of death as he tried to find god, in the bedroom of a house he didn’t remember going to, with a man too old to be on top of him.

Inside of him. 

Scooping out his childhood from his body.

Death found him at the end of each day.

Even Peter couldn’t cheat death, as much as he cheated himself out of his own happiness.

He lets himself succumb to the void, and hopes there’s something more on the other side than the back of his eyelids.

Maybe the afterlife is like something out of a trip, good for the ones who are everything Peter isn’t, with a permanent warped hell for him, and those of a similar shitty caliber.

When he awakens the second time, his world is still off-kilter, he can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol still coursing through his blood or whatever is pounding around in his skull.

The lights are much too bright when his eyelids are peeled back by some unknown force. Disoriented, he attempts to swat away his handler, but quickly discovers his restraints. Panic sets in and Peter begins to rattle within his confines.

As he hears fluttering voices pass by, he swears he hears his mother. Maybe his father. Maybe he is dead after all, and this is just some passage through a sick joke of an afterlife, a fastpass towards whatever level of hell scum of the Earth like him goes to.

It’s easier to fall back to where he came from.

To just let go, and hope for May’s sake. 

To not come back. 

\-----------

It’s almost like the first time.

Maybe the idea of reincarnation was spot on. Or did he finally make it to heaven; an eternal paradise for the pure of heart. He had never put much thought into what he pictures the afterlife to be.

The light is too white, bright, and blinding for the pit of hell he was expecting. 

He is met with the same confines he felt when he woke up before, his left wrist bound and rattling against his side as he attempts to shield his sore and burning eyes.

“Pete? Honey?” A hoarse voice calls out, and he almost chokes on his tongue.

Despite his aching and protesting muscles, he manages to turn his head in the direction of the voice.

Peter forces his eyes to open and adjust to the brightly lit room before making out May’s worn and tired face. 

He has never seen her so broken, her hair greasy and limp, the lines on her face more eminent than he had ever seen before. She always looks so young and warm, but without meaning to, he has unwound her soul into some shattered thing held together by the steady beat of the heart monitor on his bedside. 

His eyes become heavy with tears and he opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out besides a dry rasp as he heaves on his tears and dry mouth. 

His aunt fumbles for the bottle of water on the table next to her chair, and hastily twists the cap open before shoving a straw in and helping wedge it into his mouth, as if he’s some helpless child. 

“May.” Peter manages to groan out, his cheeks already glistening with tear tracks while she smooths his hair back, her own eyes already red and puffy from crying over him, while he lay in his hospital bed. 

“It’s gonna be okay sweet boy, you’re okay.” She whispered as carefully pressed kisses into his hair.

He relished in the feeling of her warm breath hitting his forehead. Her quivering lips grounding him to his bed, slowly letting him grasp control over his breathing.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-” He begins to ramble, his voice shaking as he gradually flicks open his eyes more, trying to scan the room. 

He focuses first on his right leg, exposed from the blanket over him having been pulled to the side. The bulky cast would be impossible to miss though, had he even bothered to wait any longer to examine his injuries.

May sniffles and tries to collect herself as best as she can. 

“You, uh, had a comminuted fracture? They had to operate on you when you first came in. Your bone was all smashed up into pieces, and they had to put you back together.” She tries to force a smile, before continuing. “Then you have a minor laceration on your forehead because you split your head open on the steering wheel on impact. You either have a Grade Two or Grade Three concussion, they’re waiting to see how you’re functioning before deciding. I personally think it’s a Two, you don’t seem to be struggling with language, and you remember what happened-”

“May.” Peter cuts her off as the older woman’s voice begins to tremble and her eyes become glossy once more. 

She takes a deep breath and grips his hand.

“I think I’m gonna be okay.” He murmurs slowly. His tongue feels heavy and dry, and as he tries to sit up and reach for the bottle on his own, something tugs back on his wrist reminding him of when he initially woke up and couldn’t move.

Peter turns his head and rattles his wrist. He is handcuffed. To his bed. 

The metal glints under the fluorescent lighting and he whips his head to face May, way too fast. His vision spins, and he scrunches his eyes shut as he felt something akin to vertigo run through him. 

“They’re waiting to Mirandize you until you’re fully coherent.” May almost whispers. 

It’s nearly dead silent in the hospital room, the only other sounds being the whirring and beeps of the hospital machines.

“They thought you spun out because of the snow, but your blood test came back with a blood alcohol content of .12, Peter. And—“ The woman pauses and takes a deep breath, anything involving the harder drugs of his choice making her instantaneously on the verge of tears once more. It breaks his heart to see her like this at all, but he can’t help but go back every time.

“You tested positive for Opiates as well. So, now they plan on charging you. I already called Matt, he’ll be meeting us at the arraignment, where you will be pleading guilty and accepting of whatever charges the judge gives.”

Peter keeps his gaze on the blanket, not willing to meet May’s eyes.

“I didn’t shoot up-”

“I don’t care Peter!” She yells exasperatedly. 

“I don’t care how you took it, because you did and nothing can change that. You’re in trouble. With. The. Law. I can’t bail you out anymore! I can’t tell CPS you’re in a program and working on staying clean, because your fate is out of my hands. And it’s certainly out of yours.”

“You just better hope they fine you instead of making you serve time.”

His vision is quickly completely obscured by his own tears. He has never been this emotional, or this fear-filled, accompanied by the constant reminder of disappointing the only person who has ever looked out for him. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, holding back a sob while trying to sound as sincere and collected as he can.

“I know.” She replies softly, before pulling her hand away, grabbing her coat, and leaving the room. 

For the first time in he doesn’t know how long, he lets himself cry. 

He hadn’t felt this pulled apart at the seams since Ben died. 

It was only three years ago when he was sixteen and on a trip to the city. 

The overwhelming responsibility he felt for the loss is unyielding. 

Now, he is truly responsible for something.

He doesn’t know whether to be thankful or resentful for the fact that he is still a living and breathing being. 

It is undeniable that each option wouldn’t spare May of any emotional pain. One would only stave off his own.

His eyes trail up as a tall, broad figure fills the doorway, a blond man decked out in full police uniform. He probably feels nothing but contempt for people like Peter. 

Peter holds in his tears once more, as the heavy shoes thud against the linoleum tiled floor.

“I’m Officer Rogers.” He speaks with authority, almost trying to seem extra powerful over some kid cuffed to a bed.

“Peter.” He replies shaking the wrist that has been shackled to the bedside rails.

The older man visibly blanches in his peripheral. 

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

_The angels come too late,_

_Feathers crawling with mites and eyes flat_

_As snakes’. The smell of ozone lingers_

_In their skin, and glory glory glory sounds_

_Like a punchline._

_They promise altars and arks;_

_The hollow earth, the ascending light._

_You will be gold, and gold again._

_You are not surprised when their throats_

_Are torn open, and revealed to be hollow._


	2. sea foam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there! welcome to chapter two! just a reminder to mind the tags, thanks for reading! <3

“So what have you tried?”

Peter is thirteen. 

He’s at some house that belongs to a kid from his class, or his parents.

He wouldn’t call it a home. It’s not warm. The walls are absent of any photographs, and signs of life, of love. Emotionless, and without compassion. 

Simply a confinement, for the boy whose happiness is built on cash, and the weed in his pocket, because his parents aren’t here, but maybe they once were. 

Just like Peter’s. 

And that’s why he takes the joint, and drinks the contents of the thermos that is pushed into his hands when the light of day is gone, and his eyes are red and glossy. And the other boy’s hand is under his shirt, and there are bruises left on his neck.

Because they’re both thirteen. 

And their parents aren’t here. 

\-----------

He had always been pretty quick to pick up anything. Always the role model as a kid, constantly the perfect example of what to do.

Certain aspects of that statement have since changed along with his behavior, and what exactly he was  _ picking up _ , so to say.

But when it came to learning how to use the crutches, as he and May were rather insistent on losing the wheelchair, Peter is on the edge of asphyxiating himself with them.

It was already enough that he is currently experiencing the worst withdrawal symptoms in two years, but the constant shaking of every part of his body had been making the learning process a living nightmare. Especially with the routine visits of Officer Bother, which May had taken to calling him. 

After the man had read Peter his rights, he explained that due to Peter’s current circumstances and the extent of the injury, he had been granted the option of a video arraignment, for the convenience of the court and himself. 

Matt Murdock, his lawyer, and a long-time family friend had arrived not long after. And surprisingly didn’t give Peter too much grief for his transgressions against the law. 

For all the years he had known Matt, the man was often a stickler for exclusively defending people he believed weren’t guilty of the crimes they are accused of. 

Maybe it was just because May had simply already told him Peter is going to confess, and try to get the minimum sentence, or maybe it was just that Matt had grown to care for Peter over the course of their shared time together. 

He had been the legal aide for his parents and everything they left behind when they passed, including Peter. Although it was a bit brave of them to place their prized possessions in the hand of a green lawyer, it had paid off, and Matt had been a dear friend and counsel to May and Peter.

Peter hadn’t seen him as much as he probably should have in the past few years.

He had frankly not given a flying fuck about anyone except May at any given moment since he was still in middle school.

He tries his best to show he loved her, through all the anger issues, and the abuse, it just twisted him into a person he can’t recognize. He is mean and selfish and he doesn’t recognize his hollow reflection or the track marks on his arms and between his toes.

He wants to remove his soul from his body, and dissolve into sea foam.

Peter remembers his mom telling him the true story of the Little Mermaid on a trip to the beach once.

The water was cold. Too cold to go further than his ankles, but he stood alongside his mother, with his feet buried in the sand. Unbothered of the rocks dragging against his bare skin, when the tide would pull out. 

There was the grounding feeling of her next to him. A hand in his hair, or her hand in his, swinging back and forth, while the wind snaps against his face. Her mousy brown hair is in her face, distorting her features.

He never can remember what she looks like on his own. 

But she crouches down, her dress is wet in the sand and the salty water, but she doesn’t care.

She was never materialistic.

His mother whispers the tale in his ear, the sun tans his skin, and he holds his breath when she tells him of the mermaid who trades her voice for legs.

Peters hands coated in sand and grime, grasp on to her arm, and she never waivers as he pulls her to him.

Her voice is always so soft, her eyes, never clear in color when the sun shines into them. 

It always changes in his dreams.

He feels a loss when the girl’s love is rejected, and she returns to the sea, her home.

To become one with the waves. 

Peter wishes it were that simple.

And he could simply dissolve when he grew tired of this world. 

But he has no home to return to, and this isn’t a fairytale. 

And he has arraignment in two hours.

\-----------

He would rather re-experience his leg breaking than sit through this.

Peter was never one for learning about his legal system, which would’ve proved fruitless at this point considering he is coming to terms with the fact that years of mental illness and taking certain things have deep-fried any memory retainment. 

But he assumes determining whether or not they were going to haul his ass to jail would’ve gone at least a little faster. 

It is a painfully slow process, jock full of legal jargon, he is currently a little too over medicated to focus and grasp a handle on.

Matt had luckily coached him on his answers enough, to the point where the likeliness of him fucking up in another twenty-four period was slim-to-none. 

It is going smoothly thus far, Matt is doing most of the speaking anyway. 

He is tempted to roll his eyes every time the District Attorney went to speak, but that probably wouldn’t prove to be a good idea in front of the judge, whose single-eyed glare was proving to be enough to whip Peter’s attitude into shape.

Despite the cocky nature of the DA, she and Matt seem to be in accord with the fact that Peter would be accepting of his charges and released on ROR. It is nearly impossible for him to be a flight risk due to the nature of his self-inflicted injuries and the firm grip May has on his every movement.

When the call had been terminated, Peter let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. 

Matt gives him a side-eye as he closes his laptop and gathers his paperwork. Peter didn’t even know how it was possible he could pinpoint his exact location. 

“You’re lucky.” The older man says, cracking his knuckles and facing himself in the general direction of the hospital bed.

“I know, Matt, thank you for coming, me and May really appreciate it,” Peter confesses in a hollow voice, trying to force enough sentiment nonetheless.

“I don’t want you to see this as a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card. You need genuine help Peter, and the state is going to ensure that by any means that will not be enjoyable in any sense.” Matt replies, his voice monotonous and his empty gaze settles on the tiled linoleum floor.

“I don’t, and I’m going to try for May’s sake at least.” Peter trails off, the tension between the two of them at the moment has never been something to exist prior. Even when Peter had been threatened with juvenile convictions. Matt has never seemed so cold.

“You’re not going to  _ try _ , you are going to do it, and for your  _ own _ sake.” Matt snaps, his face crumples in on itself in anger. “I didn’t stick my neck out for you, time and time again, for you to let yourself wither away with a needle in your arm Peter. Do this for you, and start acting like you want to be alive.” He took a deep breath and carefully gathers his things, trying to compose his appearance as he extends his cane “I don’t want to find you in a hospital bed again.”

Peter’s heart stutters in his chest as he watches Matt leave out of the hospital room. 

He is just thankful to not be brought to tears again. 

It was humiliating enough to be immobilized as he is at the moment, with every vulnerable position and action on display for May, the officer  _ that just won’t leave _ , and every nurse and doctor who comes waltzing in.

He contemplates ripping out his IV and throwing himself through the third-story window.

But the immense nausea he begins to feel puts a halt on any current thoughts about escaping. 

Peter pulls the blankets tighter around him and feels his bones ache as another wave of chills washes over him.

He was afraid of heights anyway. 

\-----------

“You look like shit.”

Peter flutters his eyes open, awoken from his nap, he is supposed to be resting anyway so does it really count as a nap anymore?

“You’ve looked worse,” Peter mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with both hands. 

The officer must have uncuffed him after hearing of his release. The skin still irritated and red, where the metal had rubbed and dug into his pale skin. 

He feels a weight sink in at the edge of his bed. 

He squints at Flash as he kicks his legs up, making himself comfortable on the stiff hospital bed. 

“What are you doing here?” He chides, swatting at the other boy’s foot.

“Being a good friend or whatever,” Flash remarks, picking at his nails before dramatically looking up at Peter. 

Peter tips his head back and giggles, and it’s almost like it should be.

“May texted me, she uh—” Flash scratches at his head, his long dark hair buried beneath a beanie, “She told me it was you, who crashed their car on River Road. I tried coming earlier, but the nurse said it wasn’t visiting hours, or whatever.”

Peter watches as his eyes begin to gloss over. 

A certain ache pulls at his heartstrings as he watches Flash fidget with his hands.

To disturb whatever train of thought the other man is going down, Peter packs a hefty kick into his thigh with his functioning leg.

“Ow! Fuck—” Flash yelps and clutches on to his thigh.

Peter receives a harsh glare, but only laughs and watches him wipe at his eyes. But there’s a goofy smile plastered on his face instead of the brooding look he had prior. 

“Stop crying over me dickwad, I’m right here. And I’m  _ fine _ . Just some legal shit y’know.” Peter moans but flashes his friend a fake toothy smile in an attempt to appease him.

“You still scared me.” He replies, a more somber tone in his voice. “I know I’m not around as much anymore, and I don’t exactly show it. But I care about you, and at the end of the day, I still love you, Peter.” Flash finishes staring intently at Peter who is finding the fraying blanket May brought far more interesting.

“Yeah well, you’re not, so can we just drop it, for fucks sake Gene.” Peter huffs, rubbing at his brow bone. His head is pounding and he wishes he could just crawl into a deep never-ending hole, and never come out. To become a member of Fraggle Rock or something else that is far more appealing than continuing this conversation. 

“I worry about you.” Flash continues after sitting in silence for a moment. “I thought May was going to say you ODed, or something. I worry every day, that it’s going to be your last, and you just don’t Peter. I couldn’t make you care. I hope someday you find something that does.”

He sits up and stares blankly out the window, Flash’s hand is still resting firmly on his uninjured ankle. Carefully rubbing the sharp bone, a habit from the prior relationship. 

Peter doesn’t bother speaking again during Flash’s visit, only allowing his gaze to settle on the man for a little longer than necessary.

He doesn’t honestly know what exactly he would say, even if he could collect the energy to continue arguing with him or the next person who comes in the room with intentions to yell at him for the same things the past three have. 

He’s too tired to keep his eyes open when visiting hours conclude. His heartbeat is rattling in his temples, and his chills have come back with a vengeance. 

Just after Flash climbs off the bed, he presses a short kiss to Peter’s cold damp forehead. Lingering for just a second, but long enough to feel the tremble in his lips.

Peter wishes he would stay when he hears the door softly snick, but he can’t make him. And he can’t make him understand. 

He scrunches his eyes and digs the heel of his palms into his eye sockets. 

He doesn’t want to cry anymore.

The abrupt opening of his door causes Peter to nearly jump out of his skin. He is tempted to throw a hard object in the general direction of whoever else has taken it upon themselves to bother him, now of all times. 

But when he dares open an eye, he sees that it’s May, accompanied by a nurse with a folded wheelchair.

“You wanna come home?” She asks, her crow’s feet wrinkling on the edges of her eyes.

And Peter has never agreed to something so quickly.

_ angels ain’t just flesh & feather. _

_ they come in different palettes— _

_ sea foam, cherry bark, rose thorn. _

_ in the right heaven-yellow light. _

_ anything could be holy enough _

_ to save you. _


	3. crimson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there!! hope you all are well,, thanks for reading!!
> 
> friendly reminder to b careful of the tags <3

Peter has been staring at his ceiling for so long the grain of the popcorn ceiling had begun to swirl and shift. He couldn’t tell if he had spent minutes, or hours, finding faces and shapes.

It had been a while since he had been in his old room, and the whole nightmare of a scenario that had been playing out had confined him to his childhood home

It was weird, to see all of his childhood possessions, each one exactly where he had left them, but covered with a thin layer of dust. 

May had left everything untouched, bed made, figurines lined up on shelves. 

He wasn’t sure whether the idea of it left him with a warm feeling, or the desire to tear out his hair. 

It was hard to place the exact emotion of experiencing nostalgia that was always veiled with a memory that made his heartbeat thunder in his head, bring on an onslaught of vertigo, or feel like he was just simply on the brink of death.

Well, been there, done that.

He tossed in the twin bed, turning his head to face the wall his bed was cornered in. The dark blue walls bring a mild comfort, as his body aches and his every thought screaming at him to  _ GET OUT _ .

Ben had taken him to the local hardware store in town to pick out the paint for his new room. An attempt at easing the sudden change from living in the city, and the loss of his parents.

It had been a sepia-tinted memory, with navy-blue-stained into all of their clothes, and everyone was so happy. 

If just for a moment, it seemed like everything would be okay. 

The walls are emptier now.

He can never hear May and Ben laugh from down the hall. There were no more trips into town, to window shop and to go for ice cream. No more fireworks on July Fourth because that’s when Ben proposed, and May nearly cries every time she sees a sparkler. 

And Peter couldn’t take May to the hardware store on Main Street to make her feel better.

He lets out a pitiful groan and tugs down the beanie on his head, covering the cold tips of his ears.

No matter how heavily he layered, he was always left in a perpetual state of freezing his ass off. His chattering teeth rattled in his skull, and he was just waiting for the day his fingertips would turn black and fall off. 

May only fondly told him to stop being ridiculous and helped him cover up in warm flannels, heavy fleece-lined denim jackets, and pulled warm hats down over his unruly curls.

She had been on a very maternal streak after they returned home from the hospital, and it had gotten progressively more intense as the days flew by, even in his withdrawal-induced haze.

Her babying had only ceased after his evidentiary hearing the few days prior. He had come to miss her constant check-ups after she returned to work. The winter break had come to an end, and the teachers had been sent back into the classroom, and May, ever the dutiful fourth-grade teacher, had told Peter he would be fine managing himself for a few days a week.

But that same night she had cried, let herself open up to him again, and he held her through her shuddering breaths as she told him, “ _ I’m proud of you Peter, please let me hold onto us again. Let us be okay again _ .”

He wanted to be good, for May. He still wasn’t quite to the point of genuinely caring for his own well being, or even being bothered by the idea of his life coming to an abrupt end. 

He might still be content with the latter.

But he knew, as long as May was happy, he would try his best. She had shown such a vulnerable part of herself, Peter had been taken aback. He had become used to the fighting and the screaming matches because neither of them had been so good at expressing emotions when Peter was younger.

That had led to their falling out almost a year and a half ago.

He doesn’t quite remember the circumstances of any of it. His memories all blurred and unobtainable from certain points in time where he was too pumped full of whatever he could get his hands on. 

He had bounced around from friend to friend, never staying in the same place too long, always scared of overstaying his welcome. It had been a constant fear, his existence being so temporary in so many lives. 

He had assumed it was the same way for May. 

He knew she would always care for him unconditionally, but no matter where he was, his time with her had an expiration date. And she would leave him too.

Peter concluded a long time ago it must be an attachment issue from the abrupt deaths of his closest family members.

It was almost necessary to keep himself at lengths from those he cared about most, just in case he had another stroke of Parker Luck and some other unfortunate soul was stripped of their life from simply being in his vicinity.

He felt the house rattle slightly as the front double doors slammed back into place.

Carefully yanking out his earbuds, unbothered enough to not pause the music playing from his phone, he carefully hobbles out of the room. His injured leg was securely encased in a gray boot, no longer in its post-surgery confines. 

Nearly missing his footing on the smooth hardwood flooring, he’s reminded of days sliding down the halls in fluffy socks with his long hair in a ponytail. May’s doing, of course, she had always encouraged Peter to grow out his hair.

It is getting long again, curls licking the nape of his neck, and brushing his ears as they poked out from beneath his hat. 

He carefully attempts to make his way down the stairs, crutches tucked underneath the arm not clutching the banister, the creaking of the wood beneath his feet combined with the crutches dragging and hitting the steps creating an awful racket.

Peter huffs as he pauses to situate himself once he has made it to the bottom.

He meanders, with absolutely no grace, into the small kitchen. May is hurriedly emptying a plethora of paper bags, takeout containers, and paper boxes lining the minimal counter space.

The guilt is overwhelming, watching her ramble about her day, making Peter a plate for dinner.

And he would give an arm and a leg to be in some rando’s basement with blown pupils, and coke on his nose.

But instead, he swallows it down, tries to calm the incessant itch on his left arm, and dials back into the real world. May’s here, and she picked him up a chocolate chip muffin from the new bakery in town. Because she remembered how excited Peter would get when she packed them in his tin Star Wars lunchbox when he was little.

He manages to clamber into a chair at the island and heaves his boot-ridden foot up onto the nearest chair.

May gently rubs his shoulder and places a kiss on his temple as she sets a styrofoam box before him. 

“How was your day? Did Matt call or anything? I don’t expect to hear from him too soon, but I know he will want to check on you to make sure you’re keeping up with the court’s terms and whatnot.” She says as she opens the fridge and hands, Peter, a water bottle, and the medication for his head injury.

He obediently takes the pill before speaking, “He said he would call me after my first session tomorrow, or something along those lines.” Taking the time to open the lid, and hurriedly shoving a forkful of salad into his mouth. His current logic being, if his mouth is full, he won’t have to talk. 

“Yeah? Okay- uh, that’s good.” She said, nodding agreeably, her dainty hands tapping against the counter as her mind wandered off.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, only the sounds of utensils scratching and soft chewing. It isn’t awkward necessarily, but Peter guesses May had something else she wants to address. 

Poking at a crouton, Peter quietly watches her attempt to compose her thoughts. She has been almost hyper-diligent about her word choice, trying her best not to offend, or even trigger anything within Peter. 

He appreciates the thought, but she was almost acting as if she were to say something mildly off-putting, Peter would throw himself out the second-story window. Maybe after the scene in the hospital, she is just tired of throwing around harsh and accusatory words.

“So, have you thought about how you want tomorrow to go? Are we just hoping for the best? Y’know, maybe seeing and hearing from other people with, well, your kind of problems, is going to be beneficial.” She queries, a thoughtful look on her face. 

Peter purses his lips and stares at the half-empty container, trying not to just check out of the conversation already. Isn’t he supposed to save these kinds of conversations for therapy, or something? He knows May wants to be involved as much as Peter will allow her to be. But some things he would just like to reserve in a folder called “ _ Things I Would Rather Die Than Talk About Over Dinner.”  _

“I’m not holding my breath over anything May,” Peter says quietly, trying to put it as politely as he can. “I’m going to do what I can, and I’ll try. But I’m gonna need your patience. Please.”

May appears taken aback at the confession but gradually nods in reply.

“Of course Pete. I don’t expect any of this to be easy for you. I just want you to take care of yourself.” She murmurs, rubbing his hand. “I don’t expect to understand half of what you have been through, and you for me. I know you have your reasons, for…” May trailed off, her eyes focusing on a random object behind Peter. “Your choices. I don’t condone them, or support them in any means. But I support you, that’s all.” She finished, giving Peter a tight smile and continuing to pick at her dinner.

\-----------

The rest of the evening was oddly quiet, in conversational terms.

May likes to chat and go on about the most random things to fill the voids of silence. Peter understood it. Extended periods of silence allowed the mind to take over, and fill it with the most terrible things, like a tape of the most embarrassing and traumatic moments in your life on a continuous loop. 

It was like that tonight. Peter’s head just runs through dozens of scenarios and over-analyzing everything May had said to him at dinner. He had given up on trying to pay attention to the crime documentary playing on the TV.

May was invested in the program and the knitting project in her lap. But Peter couldn’t help but just pick at his muffin and allow his mind to run every negative thought, while the blue light of the screen illuminated him in the dark of the living room.

Peter wanted to scream into the pillow. He had to wake up at the crack of dawn, to have Flash of all people, drive him to, Alcoholics Anonymous. It was a legal obligation, it’s just what happens when you’re drunk off your ass and total your car into a tree, but it didn’t deter him from resenting it anyway. Especially since May had asked Flash to drive him when she couldn’t. 

Peter had assumed he would have his license suspended for some prolonged period of time, but asking Flash of all people? He would rather walk himself the twenty-three miles in ten-degree weather. It’s not like he hated him, or didn’t want his friendship. It was just the baggage behind it all. It seemed like there was a revolving door of close friends and family coming to draw him back into the past. 

He wants to go, just get up and drive off into the night. Watch the sunrise over the Grand Canyon, or some other cheesy shit. 

Just leave it all behind.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

May helps him up the stairs before bed and watches quietly as he attempts to change clothes on his own. 

“I love you.” She whispers and bumps her nose into his. 

The small action makes Peter’s eyes water, but for the exact reason, he hasn’t yet pinpointed. So he keeps them shut until he hears the door shut.

He remains frozen for a moment, trying to compose himself or gather a faux semblance of calm. Giving up on managing his emotions on his own, he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and feels his face heat up. 

Peter tries his best to ignore the wetness dripping down his face, opting for reaching for his phone. He tucks his earbuds into his ears and pulls the heavy layers of blankets around him. Pressing the play button with shaky hands, and trading his misery for music.

He drifts off, breath choking on a quiet hiccup, as the snow falls outside. 

\- - - - - - - - - -

The morning light is near blinding. The small layer of snow and thick sheets of ice, combined with the morning sun, makes for a very bright day. And Peter is currently not trying to slip and fall on his ass on said sheet of ice. 

He has never been too fond of the New York winters. His favorite season is spring when it’s nice and mildly warm, and life on the Earth returns. He had always loved waiting for the flowers to bloom when he was younger. Watching the box gardens in people’s windows each time they would leave the house, or the trees in Central Park finally brandishing their leaves once again.

Flash has been at his side the entire trip down the front steps and the walkway. Even though his constant worrying is slowly beginning to drive Peter up the wall, and they haven’t even gotten into the car yet. He hasn’t minded Flash’s closeness. Maybe he has just been especially lonely and touch starved without him, or maybe he still cares for him in a way.

Quickly bringing his mind wandering to a halt, he let his ex-boyfriend sort of manhandle him into the passenger seat of his old beat-up SUV. He has been in this car more times than he could count, but he still felt like he is invading a space he simply didn’t belong in.

This is not a space he is welcome in anymore, and he needs to set that boundary before he says or does something stupid.

Flash just isn’t a person he could call home anymore. 

It simply wouldn’t be fair to either of them. Peter doesn’t want him to hold on to whatever they had, and Peter stopped himself from trying to the day he left.

It is only a thirty-minute ride. There and back was an hour. Should be simple enough. But that amount of time gave leeway to conversations, and even when Flash wasn’t with him, he would be thinking about him.

Peter considers changing the locks on May. 

The man flashes him a bright toothy smile before turning the ignition and starting the car, and Peter’s stomach sinks.

\-----------

The drive hadn’t been too painful. Flash mostly keeps to himself and humming along to the radio, most likely expecting Peter to initiate conversation if he wants to talk.

He misses that about him. He has always been the type to wait for the ball to drop before outwardly expressing anything. Never jumping the gun on Peter. 

Jesus, Flash deserves way better than this.

Peter has been drumming his fingers aimlessly on the handle of the passenger door. Flash stopping to run into a small bakery to grab a coffee before dropping Peter off. He always buys a coffee before 10:30, and then he’ll have another one with lunch. 

He is predictable like that, or maybe Peter just has gotten to know him too well. 

He is drawn out of his thoughts as he watches Flash’s frame approach the car. This time Peter has been the one to smile at him, it is tight and semi-forced. But it is a smile nonetheless, and it should count for something at least. It seems to do  _ something _ , Flash seems a little giddier as he enters the car. Peter just hopes it was the caffeine.

The remainder of the ride seems to slip through his fingertips, his brain working overtime to concentrate on every little action he may have to do. Is he expected to speak? Will he have to display a version of himself to come off as less shitty of a person than he actually is? May had said honesty is key, but the last he wants to do is share anything with absolutely anyone. 

He’s trying to keep himself as collected as possible, but from the look on Flash’s face as they enter the parking lot, he must be doing a terrible job. 

“It’s gonna be fine Pete, I believe in you. You’ll be in and out before you even know it.” He attempts to reassure.

Peter shoots him a skeptical look. 

“I’ll buy you a pack of Camel’s if you’re good.” Flash lilts, giving Peter a smirk.

Peter blanches at the bribe. The wording reminds him a little too much of prior experiences.

“Menthols, and I won’t complain on the ride back.” Peter hesitantly acquiesces.

Flash hopes out of the car in an attempt to help Peter on his feet, but by the time he reaches the other side, Peter is already propping himself up on his crutches.

“I wish you would let me help you, or something.” He chastises, scratching the back of his head. “I feel like you’re on your feet too much, shouldn’t they have given you a wheelchair or something?”

Peter glares at him as he pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his baseball cap, “I manage myself just fine, thanks. And just a reminder, I’ve been on bed rest for like, two weeks with minimal movement. My leg is fine, _ I’m fine _ . And I don’t need anyone to baby me. So just dial it down. Please.”

“People who are fine don’t come here, Peter.” Flash retorts, his brow furrowed and face scrunched in irritation. 

All the fight Peter gathers as soon as Flash finishes his sentence leaves just as quick. He’s tired and would rather not fight in some community center parking lot over his personal stability.

“I’ll text you when it’s over.” Peter falters, unsure of anything else to say at that exact moment. 

Peter watches as the man’s shoulders slump may be experiencing something akin to guilt for the conviction he spoke to Peter with. It wasn’t like Flash was wrong, but there are just some things that should be left unsaid. For now at least.

Flash only nods in accordance, watching Peter cross the parking lot as if he were a hawk.

Peter just manages to push himself through the double doors. Out of sight, but never out of mind for Flash Thompson. Eyeing the hallway, he attempts to look for any sign of where he is supposed to be.

Cautiously meandering towards a room he picks up noise in, he’s hesitant to walk into space. Noticing that most people are ways older than him, and already comfortable around each other. An almost tight-knit group that reminds him too much of high school. 

Deciding against his better judgment, he hobbles into the room, trying not to be as noticeable as possible while making his way towards an empty row of seats in the furthest part of the room. 

As he hops quickly in a bee-line towards isolation from the rest of the group a hand catches his elbow. In a bout of panic, his head flies up from where it had been bowed to avoid making eye contact. 

His eyes lock with a pair of almost ice blue, and his heart stops. 

_ it can turn the sky crimson and keep your bones warm all night _

_ but in the end, it’s still fire. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone was curious, peter and his aunt live in cold spring, new york and all of the locations i've listed are real^^. and peter was listening to how to disappear completely by radiohead and broadripple is burning by margot & the nuclear so and so's. <3


	4. smoke you out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> waves at u awkwardly... "hey y'all.."
> 
> anywayz i hope u all are well and I'm sorry this chapter took me many a month, but it is here now <3
> 
> hope u enjoy and feel free to yell at me in the comments 
> 
> gets a little bit heavy in this chapter so be mindful of the tags and take care of yourself

Peter has never been a fan of touch, per se. Perhaps it was the perpetual state of being touch-starved, the trauma, or just the fact he likes his personal space thankyouverymuch. So to have any hand laid on him, in such a place where his comfort level has already been pushed to the absolute edge, is crossing a very fine line. 

The culprit is flashing him a tight-lipped smile, icy blue eyes rubbed in eyeliner dark as charcoal with a pale creamy canvas. She has a short brown pixie cut, and bangs that swooped across her forehead like a curtain scarf. The dark-haired girl couldn’t be any older than him. Her face still held a touch of baby fat, and something raw and naive blazing in the look she gave him. 

“Hey, do you need some help?” She asked, quirking her head to the side in an almost cartoonish way. 

Peter only eyed her carefully as she tugged at her fingers nervously, pulling them far and hard enough for him to pick up the soft pop. She had seemed harmless for the most part, just looking to help someone who appeared to be at a disadvantage. 

He nodded in assent.

Although there was something mildly degrading about being guided to a folded chair like you were an elderly person crossing the street. 

“Thanks.” He mumbled under his breath, propping his crutches on the chair adjacent to him. 

“No problem.” She whistled rocking back on her heels, smoothing out the baggy sweatshirt that swallowed her small frame. She looked around before carefully ducking into the other unoccupied chair beside him. “I know we’re not really supposed to talk to members, but you look cool and kind of normal, and I’m here way too much to not have someone to talk to.” She grumbled into her hand while she leaned down, avoiding his gaze for the dirty tiled floor.

“I’m Becca, technically I’m with the company that caters to the community center. Owners of the place are always up and at it, with the charity work y’know.” She froze, her eyes widening before rushing out, “Not that you are a charity case, of course, I’m out of touch socially, but not that much-”

“Peter.”

A blank look crossed her face as she leered at him from her awkward angle.

“I’m... Peter.” He elaborated, watching her with a quirked eyebrow and a small smirk pulling at his chapped lips. 

Becca’s dark full eyebrows rose into her hairline as she gave a small dramatic gasp, exhaling with a long ‘oh’. 

Her almost comical nature of expressions and easygoing disposition was enough to soothe some of the nerves that were anxiously bouncing around in every part of this body. An almost primal nature urging him to claw at his skin and hair brought down to a smoldering need.

Anxiety-driven habits had been heightened to incredible lengths throughout the duration of Peter’s sobriety. Needless to say, his mental health is currently in a rapid decline, as well as his patience for tolerating social situations. While his newfound acquaintance babbles and rambles mindlessly about her day and her job, Peter eyeballs the door, trying to calculate the speed at which he could leave without being noticed, and the amount of shit he would be in once his absence was discovered.

The lights are too bright, or too dull, he couldn’t determine but either way, his eyes were stinging and he just wanted to slip out of this godforsaken room, or out of his body.

He felt a sense of nostalgia remembering the times like these, where he would dread going to class during high school and smoke a bowl behind the bleachers with his old friends and slip into whatever first-period class he had. 

A cheap high that would only last till lunch, where he would inevitably slip away from campus to sneak out to the convenience store and wait for some closeted old man that stared at his ass for too long to buy him a box of whatever cheap cigarettes were behind the counter.

High school, in short, was a cheap memory, wrapped in whatever highs he could afford. There are some gaps in the timeline, where he can’t piece what happened, and sometimes there are things that he wishes he didn’t remember. But all in all, he wishes more anything, to be anywhere other than here.

Becca had provided a temporary solace, but even her presence is a mere reminder of how out of touch he is with anyone his age. He should be at college, working a shitty part-time job, just like his high school friends who had long since grown out of the habits Peter is still revolving in.

It was easy to imagine himself slotting into the lives of his former friends. Off at some liberal arts college in New England, or interning at some big tech company and spending his days in classes at a prestigious technology institution.

He had dreams like that once. He and his childhood best friend had spent many nights playing video games and building lego sets and rambling about becoming geniuses and going through life together, attending MIT, and blossoming into tech moguls and getting filthy rich, taking care of their families, and eating chocolate sundaes in their mansions until they puked. 

Obviously, things had changed. Ned had stopped talking to him during sophomore year and started making something of himself, without Peter in tow. He attends Columbia now, and he had recently posted a picture announcing his engagement to some nice blond girl he had asked out in senior year. 

Peter couldn’t bring himself to imagine what Ned would think of him now. He’d probably be disgusted and angry, just like everyone else in Peter’s life. He wonders if he would avoid eye contact, refusing to look into the eye of someone you had idealized after your entire childhood, and just watch them crumble into some hollow and empty person. 

Maybe he would yell, scream at him for throwing his life away just like he had the last time they spoke. Peter too drunk to care, and Ned too sober to know when to stop caring.

Every time he tries to imagine the scenario going differently, or just repeat the events in his head, the hot-cold wave of shame spreads from his skull to his fingertips, and he decides he’s too sober to think about it, and gets some form of intoxicated. 

But that’s no longer an option, so he wills away the memories, tries to focus on something other than his own personal shortcomings for at least five seconds.

“You tend to get lost in your head a lot, don’t you?” Becca queries. 

Peter looks at her from where he has buried his face in his arms unknowingly. 

“I see my brother get like that sometimes too. Some people just have the world on their shoulders, and this far away look in their eye, like they’d give anything to be anywhere else, or maybe just have an empty head.” She continues, her laid-back tone making her sound as if she was talking about the weather or something that carried a similar weight.

Peter only huffed in response, he wasn’t trying to get psychoanalyzed by some girl he just met. 

He thinks of MJ.

And he tries to think of something else yet again.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” She sighs dramatically, Peter feels an ounce of guilt, “They don’t want us employees sticking around too long anyway, and I’ll respect the privacy of your little pity party.”

Peter does turn to look at her that time, an apology on his lips before he notices the wide toothy smile planted on her face. His own guilt turns sour and dissipates and he manages to give Becca a dry laugh, that sounds like it’s been buried in his chest for a while.

“Success,” Becca whispers, her blue eyes glowing just a little bit brighter, and he takes note of the dimple on her right cheek. 

If Peter wasn’t so very gay, he might’ve found her attractive.

When she smiles, it feels like a reward, and when she hurriedly scribbles her number on to his hand, he doesn’t object, even though the feeling of the dying pen scribbling on to his skin hurts.

He watches her fleeting figure dart around and out of the door frame, and when he refocuses his attention to the floor in front of him, it feels as though he had imagined the whole encounter.

As if she was just a figment of his imagination, and she had never been here in the first place, but when he turns over his hand, he sees the loopy handwriting, he knows it’s real.

The more he had turned to substances, the more his personal sense of passing time had succumbed into a void, of how and when did I get here. Interweaving his timeline, and what he can manage to remember, had become a more recurring task as the years progressed. 

Peter’s attention perks up as he realizes the noise in the room has quieted into a low murmur, a lull in conversation begins to take weight as most of the audience draws their attention to the center of the room, where Peter guesses the chairperson of the meeting had stood. He has only managed to catch a view of the man’s broad back, a gray henley pulled tightly over the breadth of his shoulders.

When he turned around, the man’s eyes had flicked up and over to Peter, who had been staring at him rather intently before directing his attention away, as he had been caught.

Peter feels a blush take over his face, and he quickly tries to turn on his phone to seem preoccupied. His shaking hands make unlocking his phone unachievable and he settles for looking at his reflection on the black screen.

His face had never looked more gaunt, with dark circles and bags beneath his eyes, his skin even looked sickly in the monotone reflection.

He pockets his phone and hopes the guy starts talking before he loses his mind.

And almost as if God had given Peter a gift himself:

The man in the center clears his throat, “Good morning everyone, how are we all doing?” He gives a soft but small smile, and Peter’s brain short circuits. "For anyone not familiar with me, I'm James, the chairman of our meeting today." His voice is low and deep, and listening to it feels like wading in warm water. His smile is kind and it feels akin to coming home.

He gets a joined response from most of the room. Peter chooses to keep his responses to himself, and mentally pledges to touch some grass in the near future. 

“Good to see some familiar faces this morning, as well as some new ones. Welcome to all of our old friends as well as our newcomers. For those of you who have never attended, my name is James, I help run our meetings here at the center, and we usually start with a little serenity prayer,” he clears his throat and rubs his hands together, Peter’s eyes track the movement, “Pray to whomever or whatever you believe, place yourself into the hands of spirituality for just this moment today.”

Peter watches as most of the eyes in the room flit shut, hands pressed together, palms at the center. He watches on, making himself into a bystander rather than a participant, separating himself from the events at hand was his only hope for surviving, or at least in his mind it made sense. Peter had stopped putting faith in his God the moment Ben died and wasn’t planning on asking for serenity from him in a community center of all places. 

“ _ God, grant me serenity _ ,”

Serenity for what? Serenity and peace shall not be given to the damned. Damned to their mortal realm, with their mortal pleasures and highs. Damned to breathe, and damned to wake. He will never fall to his knees and ask for solace.

“ _ To accept the things I cannot change; _ ”

Acceptance. A stage of grief. To grieve his loss of control, to grieve, to grieve, to grieve. To grieve his body, mind, soul. The father, the son, and the holy spirit. To grieve something gone and lost. To grieve for a dead god and a dead hope

“ _ Courage to change the things I can; _ ”

“ _ And wisdom, _ ”

A pause is granted, a still moment, where silence consumes all. Silence consumes flesh and bone, a white noise void, where all that is left is rot. Decay.

“ _ To know the difference. _ ”

Peter had never said he was wise. 

\-----------

It was easy to take a backseat, to simply become unconcerned with his surroundings. James’ voice was a constant, and a comfort. His voice turns Peter’s thoughts into a low thrum. Brought him peace for a few moments, as he talked about the principles of the program. 

Peter didn’t necessarily care, but he enjoyed the way James’ voice purred unintentionally on certain words, he also enjoyed watching him. He carried himself with such strength and composure. He wondered what it felt like to feel that weightless and free. He wonders if someday he’ll feel it too.

He still holds his anger, and his sorrow, his pain, and yearning, always tucked away into a part of himself. Some days it is more obvious than others. He sees James, and all he can think is, maybe. Just. Maybe.

Peter’s attention was peaked as he watches the chairman take a seat. He takes notice of the way his hands envelop his thighs, and he shifts, almost as if it was a nervous habit. 

He makes the mistake of being caught yet again. James’ eyes are apparently very blue, and Peter very apparently has a staring problem. 

He finds it a little harder to look away this time, especially when he realized, that he had been looking for Peter in his audience, looking for him, so he could see him, and watch him, from afar, just as Peter had done the same to him.

It makes an uncomfortable warm feeling rise in his chest, and James averts his attention before their unintentional staring contest can continue any longer. He clears his throat, before speaking out to his audience once more. 

“We’re gonna go ahead and wrap up today’s meeting like usual, with some sharing. Do we have any newcomers that would like to make introductions? No pressure of course, if today isn’t your day to share then wait for a time when you’re ready. It’s all about self-support and moving at your own pace.”

The rising panic in Peter immediately deflates as he watches an older woman raise her hand begrudgingly.

She briefly introduces herself before going into a brief spiel about how her excessive drinking and begun to cause a rift in her marriage and wanted to seek help before it tarnished any of her relationships with friends and family.

Peter doesn’t know how he can follow up her story with his own. But the weight of his guilt if he left this meeting without speaking a word to anyone other than the catering girl, would be too heavy.

After the other members had thanked the woman for sharing her story, Peter with utmost hesitance raises his hand. He receives a nod from James, a silent encouragement for him to speak. And despite all of the attention that is now being directed toward him, Peter collects the confidence to finally use his voice. 

He had never had much confidence, or social abilities growing up. He was shy as a kid, always ducking behind his parents’ legs, and then May and Ben’s. Peter has never felt more exposed, like a deer in headlights, with nowhere to hide. 

“Hi, I’m Peter.”

wrap you in yarn and grass

embalm you with milk

lay you to rest 

in cardboard lined with silk

wildfires have been eating you

inside of my head

trying to smoke you out

or burn you alive in it

this time **_please just stay dead_ **


End file.
